


Mountain Flowers

by Chrononautical



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Beorn's House, Explicit Sexual Content, Flowers, Here there be porn, Implied Relationships, M/M, PWP, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 18:18:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17289008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrononautical/pseuds/Chrononautical
Summary: Bilbo knows his soulmate is a dwarf, so he joins the Quest for Erebor. Even if he doesn't meet his soulmate along the way, at least he will help that unknown dwarf return to a well deserved home. Still, it would be nice to meet his match. Dwarves, after all, are unexpectedly attractive. Particularly their king.





	Mountain Flowers

Gandalf could say what he liked about Bullroarers and stories. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End had no intention of going on an adventure. Dragons? No thank you. In fact, after the mess they made of his pantry, Bilbo was rather finished with dwarves as well. No matter how tragically handsome their king was. Nothing could possibly induce the hobbit to accompany them on this mad scheme. 

Almost nothing. 

Sighing, Bilbo unbuttoned his shirt and looked in the mirror. There, in blocky runes right over his heart, was the soulmark. 

Most hobbits had a soulmark on their wrist or ankle. They varied of course, from elegant script in gold or green to an undignified scrawl in brown or black, but they were always legible. Which is not to say one knew from birth. Nicknames were popular for children. Sometimes a lad or lass wouldn’t know that the Biffy Boffin they were friends with was actually the Arbiphineas Boffin they were destined to be with. However, such misunderstandings were usually cleared up by the time tweens started pairing off. In all the Shire, only Bilbo couldn’t read the name of his own soulmate. 

The runes were Khuzdul. Bilbo knew that much. Admittedly, he made a study of languages for decades in the hopes of deciphering them. It was a wasted effort. Khuzdul was a well kept secret. As far as Bilbo could tell, it had no loan words or outside influences. He would not find a translation key in any book. 

Once, twenty-five, flirtatious, and invincible, Bilbo took his shirt off for a dwarven merchant at the Green Dragon. Although things had been going rather well up to that point, the moment the dwarf saw Bilbo’s mark he cursed and drew an ax. Threatening to carve the sacred language from Bilbo’s blasphemous skin was, apparently, the natural reaction to such a secret being spilled. 

With appalling rudeness, the dwarf even reached out to cover the word with his bare hand. At least that burned them both and proved to the stranger that Bilbo’s soulmark was real. Only a mate could touch a mark. After assuaging the fellow’s anger by insisting that he had no idea what his mark meant, Bilbo was allowed to put his shirt back on. 

“Never show that to anyone ever again,” the dwarf growled. And Bilbo never had. 

That didn’t stop him from wondering what it said. 

Over the years, as all of his friends found their perfect matches and settled into blissful domesticity, Bilbo slowly gave up on the idea of love. He had his garden, his books, and his armchair. If he wasn’t happy, at least he was content. That had to be enough. He had no other option. But now there were dwarves snoring in all of his spare bedrooms. 

Naturally his soulmate was not among them. No soulmate of Bilbo Baggins would ever arrive at someone’s house unannounced for tea and then demand dinner as well. That said, one couldn’t ignore the fact that they were dwarves. If Bilbo traveled with them, he might meet other dwarves. Perhaps one of those dwarves would have his name written in a clean, legible hand across their wrist. 

The hobbit sighed again. He was too old for flights of fancy or thoughts of love. It was too late to meet his match. What could he do in the wild against dragons, goblins, and other foul things? What did it matter to him if his soulmate was out there somewhere, wandering, homeless, and hungry?

In the morning, he found the contract on the table with Thorin and Balin’s neatly scrawled signatures there at the bottom. As fast as his legs would carry him, Bilbo Baggins ran to reclaim Erebor. 

The dwarves neither trusted nor liked Bilbo much at first. A great deal of their good humor was found at his expense. Since they were all so very secretive and close, he did not dare broach the topic of his soulmark. There was still a chance that skinning him and leaving him in the wild would seem the proper course of action to the dwarves. Bilbo was part of the quest and the company, but he was not truly one of their number. 

Indeed, his relationship with the company as a whole was not unlike a courtship dance. Bilbo stepped forward to join them, and they withdrew at his clear preference for the comforts of home. The dwarves warmed to him slightly after the incident with the trolls, and Bilbo pulled sharply away upon witnessing their appalling behavior in Rivendell. Bilbo saw more dwarven skin than he ever wanted to in Lord Elrond’s poor fountains. Sadly, although a lot of it was tattooed, there were no names in evidence.

All of the dancing reached its denouement in the Misty Mountains, when Bilbo nearly fell to his death during the battle of the rock giants. Upon saving him, Thorin expressed his opinion that Bilbo was dead weight and ought to go home. Upon being saved, Bilbo rather agreed. His romantic ideas about reclaiming the mountain and meeting his soulmate there were nothing but daydreams. 

Fortunately, before he could go, the ground opened up beneath them. Racing through Goblin Town, falling yet again from a terrifying precipice, facing Gollum alone, and making his way through those awful caverns built the hobbit’s confidence somewhat. Explaining to the dwarves that he only wanted to help them find their home felt like a moment of genuine understanding. Then he was able to protect Thorin, just a little, from Azog and those awful wargs. 

After that, everything changed. 

It was in Beorn’s garden that the subject of soulmarks first came up. Unsurprisingly, Bilbo was not the one to broach the topic. Everyone was lazing about in the sunlight, enjoying milk, mead, and a few moments of rest. Then, out of nowhere, Oin kicked his brother and told him to quit showing off. 

From Bilbo’s perspective, Gloin was innocent enough. The dwarf had only rolled up his shirtsleeves. He was not nearly as exposed as Dwalin, who was walking around in nothing but his breeches, airing his tattoos for all to see. 

“I’m not showing off,” Gloin growled. “I miss her.” 

At once, Oin’s face took on a much more sympathetic cast, and Gloin returned to tracing the tattoo on his forearm with gentle reverence. 

Bilbo squinted at it. It looked a bit like an asterisk surrounded by a squiggly sort of knot. It did not look like the portrait of Gloin’s wife which he wore in a locket about his neck. “Your wife?” the hobbit hazarded anyway. 

“Aye,” Gloin mumbled. “My One.” 

Bilbo blinked. “Is that picture your soulmark?” 

Gloin looked up at him. “Aye, it is. Did you think I was one of those who gave up easy and settled for a wife other than my soulmate?” 

“No, no, not at all,” Bilbo said quickly. “Only, hobbit soulmarks are rather different, as it happens.” 

“Oh?” 

“Hobbits have the name of their intended, not a picture.” 

All activity in the garden stopped. The dwarves turned to stare at Bilbo. Kili barked a laugh, and Fili quickly joined him. 

“That must make it easy,” Nori cried. 

“A name!” Bofur laughed. “What I wouldn’t do for a name!” 

It seemed that everyone found great amusement in the proposition of a name. Given his own difficulty with figuring out the name written over his heart, Bilbo chafed a little at the exclamations of hobbit simplicity. “Well what do dwarves have? How do you know that picture even indicates your wife?” 

Gloin grinned, taking no offense at the question. “It is her maker’s mark, sure enough. Mahal may have forged me, but I am branded with her sign.” 

“It is often so,” Balin said. “Dwarves are given a mark to guide them in seeking their other half, but it can be difficult to decipher. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a soulmate with a maker’s mark after all.” Rolling up his own sleeve, he showed Bilbo the tattoo that circled his wrist like a bracelet. It looked rather like tea leaves if they grew on twisting vines. There was something discreet and dignified about it which suited Balin very well. 

“I see,” Bilbo said. “That must be a tricky nut to crack.” 

“Indeed,” Balin said, looking down at his wrist. “After a lifetime of searching, I am no closer than ever I was to finding my match. Yet one hopes eternally. And if I do not find them in this life, I will meet them in the halls of my forefathers, where all is made clear.” 

“What about you, Master Baggins?” Thorin’s voice was mild and polite, a marked improvement from their former mode of conversation. “Have you the name of some lucky hobbit on your person?” 

“Ah.” Bilbo licked his lips. “I do have a name, yes.” 

A loud chorus of jeers and proclamations about how easy life must be in the soft, gentle Shire followed. Thorin did not join them. His neutral eyes remained on Bilbo’s face. 

“And a mate?” Thorin asked.

“No,” Bilbo said. “I have never been able to read the name. It is not in Westron, Sindarin, Quenya, or any other tongue known to me. In fact, I wonder if it might not be written in dwarvish.”

“Khuzdul?” Kili’s mouth fell open as though an arrow pierced his lungs, draining out the air.

“Their name? Their actual name?” Bofur seemed to be having difficulty with the summer heat. Taking off his hat he began to fan himself.

“Surely not,” Dori repeated over and over. “Surely not.”

“But you keep it covered?” Balin asked with startling intensity. “Always covered? Never exposed to sun or sky?”

“Well, yes,” Bilbo said, rather afraid that one of his friends would suggest removal in the same fashion as the dwarf in the Green Dragon all those years ago. Putting a hand to his chest, he added, “It is in a rather delicate place.”

“It is safe, then,” Thorin declared. 

Everyone settled down a bit at that, but there were still a few murmurs around the garden about having a name written down where anyone might read it. No one seemed to think hobbits were lucky or simple anymore. 

Finally, Gloin said, “Well, I gave my name to my wife the moment we understood our marks. It's not so strange if you think about it.” 

“As did I,” Bombur agreed. “If you can't tell it to your One, what good is a name?”

“Imagine them knowing,” Ori said wistfully. “Knowing your name before ever meeting face to face.”

Bofur sighed. Kili had tears in his eyes. Many seemed to think this was the most romantic notion in the world. 

“Not worth it,” Dwalin grunted. “What if it was on your face and you couldn't keep it covered?” 

Reluctantly, Ori admitted that this was probably true, but he kept glancing sideways at Bilbo. This seemed to be the best opening the hobbit would get.

“I don’t suppose one of you would be willing to take a look?” 

“Absolutely not!”

“Not our place!”

“Keep it covered! In Mahal’s name, keep it covered!”

So that was a no, then. At least no one tried to skin him. 

The conversation drifted toward everyone else’s soulmarks, and how hard they were looking. Nori claimed not to care about the person indicated by the twisting piping on his right shoulder, but he made sure every single member of the Company got a good look at it. It was beautiful. 

“There are so many colors,” Bilbo exclaimed. 

“Ah, a splash of color is natural enough for a dwarven soulmark,” Balin said, though his tea leaves were only green and silver. 

“Lucky you, though, Nori.” Bofur grinned. “Your soulmate is already a rich dwarf, no matter how this venture turns out for us.” 

“What do you mean by that?” the thief asked suspiciously. 

Bofur shrugged. “Haven’t you ever tried to read it?” 

“Read what?” Bilbo asked, squinting at the squiggly lines and trying to see letters. 

“It’s an old way of drawing a mining map,” Bombur explained. “Our folk use it, when we’ve got the pigments on hand. You can see the entire mine at a glance.” 

Nori frowned. “Rich, you say?” 

“Aye,” Bofur said. “He’s got opals here under the basalt. Firestones and rubies, too. Lucky bastard.” 

Nori’s mouth pressed in a tight line for a moment. Then he shrugged again. “Well, I’ll be more than rich enough for him once I’ve got a fourteenth share of the treasure hoard of Thror.”

“That’s the spirit, Nori,” Ori cried. 

“Not much help finding the fellow, is it, though?” Bombur observed. “All dwarves mine a little, and he might not discover that particular place until late in life.” 

“True,” Ori admitted. “Mine is just as bad. I’ve only got an ax to go on. Everybody wields an ax at some point or another. Here, see.” Appallingly, he made to pull down his trousers. 

Bilbo averted his eyes quickly, inferring that the mark was on an even more indelicate place than Ori’s chest. Fortunately, Dori snapped at him not to be crass. Apparently, showing off one’s soul mark in public was considered slightly boorish among dwarves. 

At least, Bilbo thought that must be it. He’d seen the dwarves bathing together often enough to think that trousers alone couldn’t be the problem. 

“One mustn’t appear desperate,” Dori said. “There is more to love than a soulmate.” 

“My father was our mother’s soulmate,” Nori said. “Meaning things between her and Dori’s father didn’t end well.” 

“Nori!” Ori stood between his brothers defensively.

“Oh, it’s quite true,” Dori agreed placidly. “Shall we speak of Nori’s father and his approach to child rearing?” 

Nori’s face twisted with anger, and Bilbo knew that his next riposte would be one that cut. 

“Soulmates doesn’t mean perfect,” the hobbit interjected quickly. “We know that in the Shire well enough.” Then he launched into the story of his own parents. How his father’s family would not even consider a Took for the bride of their eldest son. How Belladonna was so soured by that rejection that she chose adventure over love for many years. How they died together, orphaning a young son, because they could not bear to live apart. 

So that got them through the rest of the afternoon, and dinner raised Bilbo’s spirits in turn. Beorn’s honey was magnificent, and his bread was even better. Fresh bread was rare in the wild, and Bilbo enjoyed every bite of it. After supper, while the company reveled in mead and music, Thorin nodded to Bilbo before quietly slipping outside. 

Beorn kept what he called a little hay shed some distance from his home. Apparently even every intelligent animals could not be trusted with the whole store of food easily in reach. Bilbo called it a second barn for size, but it was empty enough in summer with just a few old bales and the lanterns Thorin lit one by one. 

“Thorin?” 

“I would have words with you, Master Baggins,” the king said solemnly. 

“I gathered that.” Bilbo smiled. Even so, there was a lovely starlit garden outside of this musty, windowless barn. The hobbit did not say as much. He gathered dwarves were sometimes more comfortable indoors or underground. 

“I would show you my soul mark,” Thorin continued slowly, “with your permission.” 

Bilbo’s heart leapt. Thorin could not possibly mean that the mark indicated Bilbo in some way. That was too far beyond conception. Tall, handsome, heroic Thorin was not meant for a hobbit. Keeping his voice and face as neutral as possible, Bilbo said, “Oh? I have never seen yours, have I? You did not bathe in the fountains at Rivendell.” 

“No.” Lamplight made Thorin’s blush easy to read. “My mark is not dwarvish. As a child, I was told it was not suitable for one of Durin’s Line. By preference I keep it concealed. However, after the talk today, I wonder if I have not been too closed in my thinking.” 

Although he knew all too well the shame that came with having a mark unlike the ones sported by friends and family, Bilbo felt a great pity that a prince among dwarves suffered similarly. 

“Perhaps,” he said cautiously, “your soulmate is only a slightly unusual dwarf. Indeed, to match you, I should think they would have to be quite remarkable in many respects.”

“Perhaps.” Thorin’s smile was small, but genuine. “Will you look? Will you tell me what you can? In truth, it has been so long since I used a mirror to view it myself that I have nearly forgotten the shape of the thing.” 

“Of course,” Bilbo said warmly, realizing how foolish he’d been. Naturally Thorin’s mark was not something hobbit-like, only in a place the dwarf could not see easily. As Beorn had no mirrors, Bilbo was the next best thing. Not being a dwarf, he would not mock something for being unsuitable or insufficiently dwarven.

“Thank you.” Turning around, Thorin began undoing the buckles of his armor. It took some time, but Bilbo did not offer to help. Eventually, the king slipped his shirt off and over his head.

“Oh!” Bilbo gasped. “I have never seen anything so beautiful in all my life!” 

Across the entirety of Thorin’s back, a garden bloomed. Riotous purples, blues, reds, pinks, yellows, and greens tumbled from the blades of his shoulders down to the top of his trousers. Had Nori’s soulmark seemed unusually colorful? It was nothing compared to Thorin’s flowers. They were incredible. It was not like looking at a drawing. It was like looking into an actual garden. Bilbo had never imagined the like. 

“They are flowers,” Thorin said after a time. 

Recalling that he was meant to be telling Thorin about the mark, Bilbo cleared his throat. “Yes. Very true to life flowers. As though I am looking at someone’s garden in the height of summer.” 

“What can you tell me of them?” Thorin shrugged and the ripple of his muscles drifted like a breeze blowing through the garden. “Are they the sort of flowers you grow in the Shire? I am given to understand that one flower is not exactly like another.” 

In this way, Bilbo was given to understand that the all flowers not being identical was the sum total of Thorin’s knowledge about the topic. The hobbit smiled. 

“No. I do not grow these flowers in the Shire. I couldn’t. You have burnt orchids here and twayblade, another variety of the same. A cousin of mine cultivates orchids, but he has to do so indoors. They’re quite finicky about water, sunlight, and the like. Burnt orchids in particular wilt in any sort of heat. Summertime will finish them in the Shire.”

“But they are valuable?” Thorin asked. “Despite their discerning nature?” 

“Oh, yes. I should very much like to grow them if I had a way to keep them comfortable.” 

“And the other flowers?” 

“If it is usefulness you are interested in, there is bearberry and wintergreen here. Both give edible fruit and are useful in many medicines. Again, they’re cold weather plants. We saw some of each while climbing in the Misty Mountains, though it was the wrong time of year to get any use out of them.”

“Mountain plants.”

“Why yes! Surely that does not surprise you? I suspect all of these are mountain plants. You’ve some beautiful snowbells here. Oh, I adore this shade of purple. We could never grow them in the Shire. I’ve only seen them in books. But they’re a type of primula, which has always been a favorite of mine. These pinks are rather different from the Shire varietal as well. I grow pinks, of course. Everyone grows pinks. But these have a smaller leaf and a brighter flower. I expect that it’s another cold weather breed. A truly lovely one.” 

“So it is not a hobbit’s garden, then?” Thorin turned to face Bilbo. 

Bilbo flushed. Thorin’s chest was covered in soft, black hair that trailed along his burly dwarven muscles like an invitation. The hobbit had to remind himself that touching someone’s bare chest was taboo for rather different reasons than touching a soulmark. “No. A hobbit could not grow a garden like that in the Shire.” 

“Perhaps it is the garden a hobbit would grow on the side of a northern mountain.” 

“Perhaps.” Bilbo’s tongue was as dry as old toast. This was very fortunate. He surely would have swallowed it otherwise. “Thorin. Are you quite certain that it would be entirely out of the question for you to have a look at—”

“Show me this name, Bilbo Baggins. I would read it, if I can.”

Slowly, with trembling fingers, Bilbo began to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. Squirming out of it carelessly, he threw it into the hay then peeled off his shirt. Trembling eagerly, he straightened up so that Thorin had full view of his chest. The dwarf stared. 

Minutes passed in silence. Finally, Thorin stepped forward. He did not touch the mark, but placed his hand on Bilbo’s chest just beneath it. Bilbo shuddered. Thorin didn't react. He seemed to be reading the word over and over again. 

“Well?” Bilbo asked. “Does it—It doesn't say Thorin, does it?”

The dwarf smiled. “No. It doesn't say Thorin.”

Bilbo was very glad that Thorin was still staring at his chest. A great deal of disappointment surely showed in his face. Trying to keep it out of his voice, the hobbit asked, “Can you tell me what it does say?”

Thorin licked his lips. “Yes. It is only ever to be said in private, and never in the open air.” Blue eyes darted up to meet Bilbo’s. In anyone else, Bilbo would have imagined that look to be shy. “Under stone is best, but I could not wait.”

“I understand,” Bilbo said, though he did not. 

“It says Zimrithanamarkhel—Called to Shield. That is—” Thorin paused to laugh. “I have never translated it before. Markhel is shield of shields. Called to shield all, mayhap. I have always— Called to Shield My People is how I interpret it. It is my dark name. The name given to me by my maker, not my father and mother. The name on my heart.” Thorin laughed again, soft and joyful. “The name on your heart.”

Bilbo laughed with him at that. For a moment, they simply stood there, grinning at each other like fauntlings with a secret. Bilbo thought it was exactly like what his friends who found their love in childhood must have experienced. But he and Thorin were not children. 

Dragging gently as they went, Thorin’s fingers slid up Bilbo’s chest to trace the runes over his heart. Bilbo’s legs wobbled. All the lamps exploded. Golden light filled the shed in a blaze of flame and fireworks. His whole body split down the middle to make a place for Thorin’s hand. 

When the hobbit opened his eyes, of course, none of that had happened. There was only the slightly musty hay, the perfectly intact glass lamps, and Thorin. Thorin standing with his hand pressed against Bilbo’s mark looking winded and shaken. 

“Did you feel that?” the hobbit asked rather stupidly. 

The quirk of Thorin’s eyebrow implied the ridiculousness of this question. “Of course not. I alone among all the souled creatures of Arda can touch a mark and feel nothing.” 

Bilbo grinned. “My father always used to say, ‘Sarcasm is the refuge of the inarticulate.’” 

“Surely he said it to the wind.” Thorin smiled. “I can think of no sarcastic person with whom he might have conversed.” 

So Bilbo had to kiss him, because he could not think of a worthy retort. As soft as Thorin’s lips were, his beard was rough where it brushed against the hobbit’s cheeks. Thick dwarven fingers continued stroking Bilbo’s chest, tracing the soulmark until he was panting around Thorin’s tongue, aching and desperate. 

Turnabout was fair play.

Wrapping his arms around Thorin firmly, Bilbo pressed his palms against that powerfully muscled back. Thorin reared up wildly with an inarticulate shout. Something tremendously solid in the dwarf’s trousers shoved gracelessly into Bilbo’s belly. 

As that made working on the dwarf’s belt a priority, Bilbo stopped rubbing Thorin’s back. This, naturally, meant Thorin returned to stroking Bilbo’s soulmark and swallowing the hobbit’s eager cries. Bilbo couldn’t be expected to work a buckle under such circumstances. However, he was determined not to spend in his own trousers. So he didn’t. Quite.

Catching Thorin’s hand firmly, Bilbo moved it to his ass. Strange as it was, thinking would be much easier with Thorin’s hand on his ass instead of his chest. And perhaps Thorin would start thinking about the removal of trousers. Bilbo was going to say something about it. As soon as he finished sucking on Thorin’s tongue. 

Thorin did not oblige. 

Lifting Bilbo easily, the dwarf encouraged the hobbit to wrap his legs about his middle. Feeling the hard press between his ass cheeks, through Thorin’s trousers and his own, Bilbo had a sudden vision of his future. Even before Thorin’s mouth closed over his soulmark, Bilbo knew how it would be. 

Thorin was a king. He wanted to take, to claim, to plow and sow, and to read his own name while he did it. Bilbo wanted that, too. Alone for so long, Bilbo wanted nothing more than to be taken. The rough brush of Thorin’s beard over the peak of his nipple drove every other thought from Bilbo’s head. 

But it would break Thorin’s heart to do Bilbo an injury. Now that he had a soulmate, Bilbo was going to take care of him. 

“Will you give me what I want?” Bilbo’s voice was a trembling thing. It ended on a moan, not a question. He got his point across. He must have. One of Thorin’s hands scrambled to free Bilbo’s cock, despite the fact that the dwarf was unwilling to put him down long enough to actually get his trousers off. 

“Anything.” Thorin’s breath came in quick, hot gasps against the mark on Bilbo’s chest. “Mine. My love. Amrâlimê. Anything. Everything you desire.” 

A large, clever hand wrapped around Bilbo’s cock. Soft lips pressed against Bilbo’s nipple, soothing, apologizing for the burning brush of a dwarven beard. Bilbo gave in greedily. If Thorin was going to be gentle about it, then there was no reason for the hobbit to do anything but rut happily into his massive fist. 

“Have you salve?” Bilbo asked, because his inconvenient brain never did let well enough alone. “Oil? Something to ease your way?” 

Thorin’s startled eyes were wide and so very blue in the soft light. He did not feign to misunderstand. Instead, his long hair whipped into Bilbo’s face as he cast about the room furiously, searching for inspiration. “The lamp oil—”

“Will not be tallow,” Bilbo said gently. “Beorn does not use animal fat. I am not sure what that is, but it would be better to go without than to use something unknown.” 

Thorin’s face was wild with want and confusion. Bilbo would let him go without. Bilbo was tremendously eager for anything his soulmate desired to give, and especially for the hand around his cock to tighten up and start moving again. Surely all of those cautionary tales from healers and books were meant for other folk. Thorin would not hurt him. Bilbo was made for Thorin. If the dwarf wanted to take, to plow, to hammer, to pound, then Bilbo existed to be his anvil. 

“My mouth!” Thorin cried, as though discovering the key to the reclamation of the Lonely Mountain. “I can take you in my mouth and please you thus.” 

Bilbo blinked. Then he remembered that Thorin’s soulmark stretched across the whole of his back. Bilbo’s legs, wrapped around the dwarf’s middle as they were, would be pressing hard against it. Even his hands, innocently braced upon Thorin’s shoulders, were probably digging into the top of the enormous mark. If the drag of a thumb along the small, neat runes over Bilbo’s heart was as intense as a fist around the hobbit’s cock, how much more did Thorin feel with Bilbo touching his mark in so many places? 

“Thorin,” the hobbit said gently, “put me down.” 

“But I can please you,” Thorin said, looking strangely young. “Mine. My name. Amrâlimê.” 

“I thought your name was Zimrithanamarkhel,” Bilbo said, sliding his hands along Thorin’s back a bit. 

Making a sound like a wounded animal, Thorin bucked hard against Bilbo’s ass. His hands tightened for a second, but his eyes blinked, then went hard. By what seemed to be a great force of will, he released Bilbo and lowered him to the ground. Once Bilbo’s hands left his back, more clarity returned to Thorin’s face. 

“My apologies, Master Baggins,” he said, with great formality for someone still bare chested. “I have pressed my suit further than was desired, in an improper fashion. I pray it will not turn you against me any more than my poor manners and crude behavior have already done. Allow me the privilege of courting you, in whatever style your people prefer, and I shall prove my worth.” 

Bilbo nodded. This was a very impressive speech for a fellow as obviously inconvenienced as Thorin was by the pressing need in his trousers. The hobbit would have answered in kind, had not his own erection been left unattended and exposed by their sudden separation. 

“Or,” he suggested, “You could get your trousers off and turn toward the wall. I should very much like to press my mark to yours, and to finally get my hands on your cock.” 

Bilbo must have blinked. Suddenly, Thorin was absolutely naked, standing next to a pile of boots, trousers, and underthings. Dwarves really were conveniently quick when properly motivated. Still, Thorin paused a long moment, looking deeply into Bilbo’s eyes. 

“I have denied you a pleasure,” the king said. “Know that I would never intentionally do so. If ever you desire ought of me, say my name and ask it. I exist for you, as much as you are branded to exist for me.” Then he turned, as requested, and exposed that beautiful garden to Bilbo once more. 

This time, the hobbit could touch. 

For a little while, Bilbo lost sight of his purpose. Tracing his fingers over those lovely orchids took precedence. Bilbo was very fond of flowers. These flowers, especially. The colors were so bright, the details so perfect, that the hobbit almost expected to feel petals and leaves beneath his fingers instead of hot, dwarven skin. It was skin, however. One could tell by the desperate, keening whimper coming from Thorin’s mouth. Indeed, the dwarf was fully braced with both hands against the wall, looking as though he might collapse at any moment. So Bilbo returned to his original idea.

Leaning forward slowly, Bilbo embraced his soulmate and pressed their marks together. 

Once again, the world exploded into dazzling light, a pleasure Bilbo could not have imagined before joining with his soulmate. Thorin’s cock was hot and huge in his hands, and the hobbit stroked it eagerly as he frotted between the dear dwarf’s thighs. 

“Take me,” Thorin begged. “Fuck me. Yours. Amrâlimê. Mine. Love. Mine. Mine. Mine.” 

“Come on then,” Bilbo murmured. “Show me what you’ve got.”

So Thorin did, spending all over Bilbo’s hand and painting the shed wall with a streak of white. As the dwarf came apart, his knees buckled, and he dropped to the dirty, straw covered ground. He knelt there, panting on his hands and knees. A better hobbit would have checked on him, made sure he was all right. Bilbo could not. The beautiful garden was spread out before him. His. All for him. Marking Thorin in a way no other dwarf had ever been marked.

Wrapping his slick fist around his own cock, Bilbo pulled himself off in four quick strokes, exploding hard in pleasure and painting over Thorin’s garden with his seed. Then he fell as well. 

When Bilbo came to his senses, he was wrapped in Thorin’s arms, resting comfortably atop the king’s big fur cloak. 

“In Erebor, you will sleep on silk sheets, drink from golden goblets, and bathe in tub cut from crystal,” Thorin murmured. “I will shower you with jewels and clothe you in mithril. None shall ever harm you, or take you from my side.” 

“If you like,” Bilbo agreed, sleepily. “Anything you like, of course. And when I have the garden right, we will spend our afternoons there. I shall wear a shirt or something, if you insist, but you must not. I wish to till your garden surrounded by all the flowers it foretells.” 

And although they had many trials, difficulties, and battles before it came to pass, that is exactly what happened.


End file.
